buckskin and breeches, mustang panting between my thighs. But not quite

man enough to hold at a distance their stares, hands, breath

on my face in Deadwood's dark. I let them raid me

the way we crashed throughcamps, torched teepees, broke

the sacred, and stole flesh for show.By the time you came, Bill, the unbridled

sun had blistered my face saddle brown.Rough wind had uncovered

my thirst as endless as Montana sky when I rode beside my father,

before I understood the slice of my knife deep in skin, singe

of gunpowder in my lungs, lost lives behind me, a gaping stab

left by wild things I caught but could not tame.

Stacy Boe Miller

Stacy Boe Miller is an artist, mother, and second year poetry candidate in the MFA Creative Writing program at the University of Idaho. Her most recent work can be found in Mary Jane's Farm Magazine, The Pacific Northwest Inlander, and Mothers Always Write, where an essay of hers was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Categories

All works of art or literature are used with permission of the creator or publisher, OR under public domain, OR under fair use. If any works have been used or credited incorrectly, please alert us so we can fix it!